Dissident
by telemetries
Summary: Draco thinks Harry is beautiful, even if Harry will never agree. One-shot, slash. PLEASE NOTE: there is a rather semi-graphic scene in this story. If that is not your thing, DO NOT READ THIS STORY. Thank you.


**Dissident**

_dissident: disagreeing or dissenting, as in opinion or attitude. _

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_You are beautiful. _

It's a cliché, an overdone line; something Harry has heard millions of times from Draco and he still doesn't want to believe it. But Draco thinks it's true. Sitting here, at their kitchen table, he thinks it's true. Viewing the rain outside, watching the streets for a sign of Harry coming home from work, he will always think it's true.

Even when they've fought, Draco does not lose the viewpoint that his lover is beautiful. Even when Harry's face is contorted, his skin paled in anger, his eyes flashing brighter than they usually do. Even when his slender fingers are clenched in a tight fist as his vein pulses from his neck when he shouts his rage, his disbelief, his utter embarrassment -- oh, but maybe then, he is even more beautiful. For some reason, Draco loves seeing him angry -- it's like a great storm gathering around him and filling his ears with its assertion; assertion that had been kept quiet for such a long time, because Harry never wanted to give into his anger too much. It made bad things happen -- things Harry could never take back. Draco remembers the time Harry got _extremely _upset -- so much that he shattered the windows. And Draco has heard the Aunt Marge story several times, thanks very much.

But maybe his beauty is even greater when they're in bed. It could be foreplay, outright fucking, or just simply making love -- Harry is gorgeous either way. Draco imagines Harry's face when Draco's fingers are running up that delicate spine, cradling his neck as he captures his lips and then bucks into him hard, yet gentle -- and Harry's eyes grow wide, then they shut softly, and he moans in Draco's ear, his hot breath passing over the blonde's earlobe and neck as he pushes into him over and over again, the heat rising, falling, growing stronger and stronger as Harry clings tighter to him, his back arching. And when he comes -- oh, maybe we shouldn't get started on _that. _

But Draco can't help imagining it. He pictures his own hand snugly fit around Harry's erection, gently pumping him to climax -- and what a sight that is. Harry's eyes will flutter, his neck and head will be thrown back, his milky throat exposed for all to see, only it's just Draco seeing it and he is the only one that will ever see it, for Harry is his and he is so happy that he is his when Harry finally comes, his seed spurting onto his stomach, his mouth wide open, then shut as he relaxes and collapses onto the bed along with Draco, their hearts beating slow, slower, slowest -- but always simultaneously. Even if their breaths and beats are mere nanoseconds away from each other, it is still always together, as one, as everything, as nothing.

And even when they're not having sex -- when they're just holding each other. Or when Harry is standing alone. Draco remembers this past Christmas, when Harry was standing back and admiring the tree, with nothing but the lights woven around the branches giving off light in their living room. Draco was watching him from the dark of the hallway, admiring how the bright glow of the Christmas lights filled Harry's soft green eyes and gave his skin a sort of strange, pretty glow.

Draco loves Harry, and Harry knows it. Draco thinks Harry is beautiful, and Harry knows this too. He just doesn't agree. Draco doesn't care, and thinks that Harry can disagree all he wants -- Draco will always think that Harry is beautiful. Even when Harry is old, wrinkly, and looks like death warmed over.

Draco chuckles at this thought and looks out the window again, and sees his lover coming up the street, soaked in rainwater. Draco smiles, sets aside his mug of lukewarm tea, and runs to the front door. He opens it and runs down the street, crashing right into Harry, who is gawking at him, this overgrown, pale man, who is holding Harry like he hasn't seen him in a decade.

"Draco, what in the world are you doing?"

Harry stares as his lover smiles and plants a wet kiss on his already wet, cold cheek. "I missed you," Draco says breathily, "I missed your beautiful face."

Harry looks away and mutters something about him not being beautiful, but thanks anyway.

"You'll always be this way to me," Draco whispers before embracing Harry completely and kissing him, not caring about anyone looking out their windows at the two crazy men standing in the rain, locking lips, one of them reluctant and strong; the other, almost as strong but never denying his claim that Harry Potter is beautiful, he is all his; he is his everything and always will be.

They stay in the rain for twenty minutes before gathering themselves and going inside, their hands clasped tightly together.


End file.
